


Arthurian Romances

by therjolras



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Bad Boy Michael, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Luke is only mentioned, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, hippie ashton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 09:29:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4258221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therjolras/pseuds/therjolras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ashton's in a bit of a tangle when he's rescued by a purple-haired knight-in-leather-jacket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arthurian Romances

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mukeclemmings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mukeclemmings/gifts).



> kudos to Ellen (gravityinglass), who betaed this! mukeclemmings said anything went but they'd love bad boy/flower child AU; I wound up with bad boy/hippie instead. close enough?
> 
> this was a lot of fun to write. :)  
> A/N: I just realized I made a grave mistake in not titling this 'arthurian romances'. I am a terrible Classics student. This mistake has now been amended.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“Neither can I. It’s like _How I Met Your Mother_ or something. _How I Met Your Father_ , in this case. All we need now is a bonfire, maybe some Arthurian analogies… I know plenty, I’ll have you know.”

“I know. Please skip the fairy tale stuff.”

“Okay, I’ll try. Can’t make any promises, I like _The Princess Bride_ too much.”

“‘Is this a kissing book’?”

“ _That’s_ what I’m talking about! Just once or twice towards the end. Is it a kissing book, I mean. It’s not a book, but there’s kissing.”

“Please just skip to the story.”

“Okay, okay. So it goes like this: There’s a guy named Ashton, and maybe he was a handsome prince. Or maybe not. Either way, he was a pretty chill dude who liked to run around barefoot and listen to classic rock and drink green tea and play drums in random places. People usually liked him, ‘cause he was a chill dude, but one night that changed. Temporarily! It’s a happy story. I don’t like telling messy angsty ‘Lancelot-takes-off-into-the-wilderness stories.”

==

A pair of smudgy white nikes decided to get acquainted with Ashton’s ribs. He thought, _maybe they’re seeking to harm others to mask their own insecurities_. Then he thought, _or maybe they’re just assholes_ , and rolled away before the douchecanoe could get in a second kick. _Stigma, no_ \-- no, that didn’t work, there was no hard ‘h’ in the Greek alphabet. Thanks, classics course, sorry punny comeback. He pulled himself to his feet in time to get shoved by yet another duckface in a polo shirt. _Fucking fraternities_.

==

“You’re not supposed to use language.”

“I do what I want! Just don’t tell anyone. Anyway--”

“No, wait. Stigma, no what?”

“Sigma nu something, but there’s no breathy ‘h’ in the Greek alphabet. They couldn’t say ‘Stigma, no homo.’ ANYWAY,”

==

“Listen, guys, I just want to get back to my ecology paper,” Ashton said, holding up his hands in surrender. Something had scratched his leg while he was on the ground; there was a stinging pain and he could feel blood dribbling down his ankle. Uncool. Douchecanoe 1 said, “I don’t think I want to, buddy. I think I wanna truss you up and smoke you like some of your precious weed.”

“I don’t even smo-- I’m not that kind of hippie, man,” Ashton said irritably. “And you’re supposed to get a permit for those party roasts, anyway.”

Douchecanoe 1 was still grinning like he was the funniest person on the planet, which he wasn’t. Number Two -- heh -- suddenly decided he was bored and moved in again. Ashton dodged, and was trying to remember Luke’s boxing lessons-- any of them-- when someone interrupted. A tall, pale, someone in a leather jacket who looked in the light of the streetlamp on the corner like he had purple hair. He came around that same corner, broke into a run, and plowed right into Douchecanoe 1. Douchecanoe 1 went down; Jacket Boy turned to Ashton.

“You alright?” He said.

“Um, yeah?” Ashton replied.

Jacket Boy nodded. “Good. RUN.” Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed Ashton’s hand and booked it.  Ashton had no choice but to go along, although he wasn’t sure what else he might have done.

==

“Wait, I’ve heard this story. Wasn’t this the night your foot--”

“ _Yeaaaaaaah_.”

==

“Oh, _shit_.”

Jacket Boy’s words, not his. Ashton was too busy hitting the sidewalk with a hunk of glass in his foot, trying not to yell in agony. Jacket Boy grabbed his armpits and helped him into a sitting position, his face in the streetlight glow a mess of concern.

Ashton managed to say, half a loud groan of pain, “Glass shard. Foot.”

“Shit _,_ are you okay?” Jacket Boy said. Ashton hissed and leaned over to examine his injury. “...Theoretically?”

“So, not okay,” Jacket Boy said. “You need, like, stitches or something?”

“Dunno,” Ashton replied. In the artificial light he could see a lot of blood and a glint where the glass was sticking out of the arch of his foot, but that was the most of it. “It’s too dark,” he said.

“Well, let’s fix that,” Jacket Boy said. “We’re just around the corner from the dorms, I can help you walk?”

“You don’t even know me,” Ashton said, looking up from his injury with a bewildered feeling in his stomach.

Jacket Boy frowned. “Aren’t you Calum’s  roommate? Short, curly hair, super hot?”

“I’m not _short!_ ” Ashton replied. “Calum’s just fucking tall. Get your facts straight. Who the hell are you, then?”

“I’m Michael,” Jacket Boy replied. “From Calum’s film class. No bells ringing?”

Ashton had heard of a _Michael_ , namely from Calum complaining to Luke about his obnoxious seatmate in film class and exactly how many puns he’d manage to squeeze into the day’s question. “Pun Michael?”

“Yeah, you could say that,” Michael replied. “I was on my way over and Calum asked if I’d keep an eye out for you. Said you were late getting back.”

“S’what happens when assholes decide bare feet and kissing other blokes are worth kicking the shit out of people for,” Ashton replied.

Michael raised his eyebrows. “He bites. Now that we’ve cleared up who I am, can I help you to the dorms so you don’t bleed out here on the sidewalk?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ashton grunted.

Michael promptly grabbed him by the armpits and pulled him to his feet, draping Ashton’s arm over his shoulders. “Come on, put your weight on me and don’t walk on that foot. Hop on it or something. I’m sorry,” he added, “I’d carry you, but I suck.”

He offered Ashton a wry smile and Ashton, gingerly holding up his injured foot, snorted. “Apparently.”

“Alright, alright, don’t rub it in,” Michael said. “Okay, hop.”

Ashton complied, and hopped awkwardly on one foot in the advance. Michael was clearly itching to go faster, to get to the next place as fast as possible, but he held himself back and walked slowly.

Ashton was grateful, especially when Michael reached his free arm around Ashton’s waist and helped him over the curb. The gesture was punctuated by Michael muttering, “Maybe I could _carry_ you,” and, when Ashton made a curious _hmm_ ing noise, reaching down and sweeping him up in his arms with a grunt of exertion. Ashton yelped.

Michael grumbled, “Don’t flail, do you want me to drop you?”

“Well, that wouldn’t exactly improve the situation,” Ashton replied. Michael said, “So that’s a no.”

“I guess.”

Michael rolled his eyes and carried Ashton all the way up from the curb to the front door without dropping him, which impressed Ashton, and with the assistance of a good samaritan just inside the doors got the pair of them inside. The Good Samaritan added, after a glance at Ashton’s foot, “ _Shit_ , you okay?”

“So far we’re not dead,” Michael replied dryly, setting Ashton down in the first available seat,  “But I need to get the nurse, and I really ought to, like,  get some tissue or something to make sure no one bleeds out on the upholstery--”

“You stay here, I’ll get the nurse,” Good Samaritan said. “You two clean that up.” She took off, and Michael grabbed a tissue box off the end table and offered it to Ashton. Ashton took a wad of tissues and used it to mop up the flow of blood.

Michael said awkwardly, “Well… this sucks.”

“No shit,” Ashton replied, dropping the wad of tissues on the end table and grabbing a new one.

Michael snatched up the blood-soaked lump and threw it towards the garbage can, lighting up when it hit its mark. “I did it!”

“Nice, Michael,” Ashton said.

Michael beamed at him. “My aim is horrible,” he said.

“Oohkay,” Ashton said. “Big deal for you, then?”

“Oh, yeah,” Michael said. “I had, like, one in a million odds. I was expecting to have to get up and put it in. This is amazing.”

“Why didn’t you just do that in the first place?” Ashton said.

Michael shrugged. “I’m an idiot.”

“Okay, good to know,” Ashton said.

Michael grinned. “Just, you know, for future reference. Oh, hey, she’s back.” He stepped back as the Good Samaritan arrived with the campus nurse in tow, leaving Ashton in the hands of trained healthcare professionals that told Ashton that he wasn’t going to die and he didn’t need stitches but it was smart to check because it might have gotten infected otherwise. By the time the impromptu examination was over, both Michael and the Good Samaritan were gone. Calum had appeared, though, with an exasperated shake of the head and a fond smile.

“I told you this whole barefoot thing would go to shit,” he said.

Ashton said, “Weren’t you supposed to be doing stuff with Michael?”

“Yeah, but my plans were kind of thrown off by my roommate getting injured. So I’ll complain later. I might complain now, I was looking forward to it.” He was clearly less than sincere in his complaints; there was more concern than aggravation apparent.

Ashton scowled at him. “Shut up and carry my helpless ass upstairs,” he grumbled.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Calum replied, but he let Ashton lean on him anyway.

“Will you please wear shoes now? Just for a bit, ‘til it heals?”

“Maybe,” Ashton grumbled.

Calum nodded, satisfied with the answer. “Okay, good.”

==

“You didn’t wear the shoes.”

“Probably not as much as I should have.”

“What happened to Michael?”

“Relax, we’re getting to that part.”

==

It was a week later, when the pain in his foot had faded to the occasional stabbing twinge when he put too much pressure on it (which was more often than not, regrettably) that he found a familiar purple-haired character hanging around outside his dorm room. Ashton slowed down considerably when he saw him, a question forming in his brain, but Michael shot first.

“I’m waiting for Calum,” he said. “I swear I’m not stalking you.”

Ashton halted in front of the door across from him. “I never insinuated such a thing.”

“You were about to, I could tell,” Michael said. “So I clarified. Calum and I are supposed to hang out, but he’s late. So I’m sitting here waiting for him. What’s up with you?”

“Eh. Limping. Between classes,” Ashton replied. “I’m just picking up some stuff-- my afternoon’s booked, I guess that’s why Cal could get away with not telling me he was having company.”

Michael laughed, probably at Ashton’s irritation. Ashton added, “And it’s not like you’re any better, Mr. Vanishing-Knight-In-Shining-Armor. Save my arse and vanish-- what, no cards? Flowers? Goofy balloons?” He folded his arms, contorting his face into playful irritation.

Michael grinned. “My bad. I totally do that all the time for complete strangers.”

“We’re not _complete_ strangers,” Ashton argued. “We have a mutual friend. If you want to call him a friend.”

“Aw, that’s hurtful,” Michael said. “But, back to it. Can I make it up to you? Buy you a drink?”

Ashton raised his eyebrows. “You’re offering to buy me a drink?”

“I’m actually trying to ask you out,” Michael said, “But buying you a drink feels like a good place to start.”

Ashton nodded. “That makes sense. Well, I’m not an alcohol kind of guy, but I’m not against the sentiment.”

“Meaning?”

“I’ll go out with you. On one condition-- you tell Calum to go fuck himself.”

Michael grinned again. “I can manage that. When are you free?”

“Well, not immediately,” Ashton said. “I’ve got to drop my books and bail, actually. Next time I’m free’ll probably be after philosophy, that’s about six… should I call you?” As he spoke he shucked his backpack and fished out his keys, unlocked the door, and nudged it open.

Michael nodded as he finished, and fished out his phone. “Yeah, totally. Should I--”

“Just gimme two seconds,” Ashton said, ducking into his room and leaving the door open. Michael hovered at the door as Ashton switched out textbooks and zipped his backpack up again, slinging it back on with one hand as he exited. Michael offered him his phone, keypad out; Ashton punched his number in and handed it back.

“See you later?” He said.

“Yeah,” Michael replied, hopeful. “See you later.”

 

==

 

Ashton got back to the dorm after philosophy and found Calum rooting around in his closet. His Very Troublesome Roommate looked up as Ashton arrived, nodded seemingly to himself, and tossed Ashton a shirt. “Here. Wear this.”

“Why, again, am I wearing this?” Ashton said, catching it and looking it over. It was one of his, a Jimi Hendrix shirt slashed up with an obscene number of little holes. He looked down at the shirt he was wearing, bewildered, and Calum replied, “Because you’re going on a date. You gotta look nice.”

Ashton put his things down and looked at the shirt again. “Since when do guys help each other get ready for dates?”

“Since I’m a man of diverse tastes and we’ve been roommates for a year and a half, so I know what looks good on you,” Calum replied. “Put on the damn shirt, Irwin.”

Ashton changed his shirt.

“Did Michael tell you to go fuck yourself like I told him?”

“Mm. He said it in a funny robot voice. ‘Ashton told me to tell you to go fuck yourself.’ Then he told me he was taking you out for a drink. So, congratulations, he’s a pretty cool dude. And I might have been trying to set you two up last week when he rescued you.”

“Real sweet of you,” Ashton said. “D’you think we might go somewhere with a no-shirt-no-shoes-no-service policy?”

Calum thought about it. “Wear shoes just in case,” he said.

“You want me to wear shoes anyway,” Ashton grumbled. He got out shoes. Calum reported, “Quarter ‘til six.”

“Please stop talking.”

“I’m just here to make you extremely nervous, it’s my role as your best friend,” Calum said cheerfully.

Ashton retorted, “as of today, Luke’s my new best friend.”

“He was mine first!” Calum said.

Ashton snickered. “Too late now. Why d’you need to be his best friend, anyway, you’re already kissing him.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Calum said. “You can kiss someone and still be friends with them, they’re not like, mutually exclusive.”

“That’s reassuring,” Ashton said.

“You can’t wear a bandanna, your hair looks better without it,” Calum added absentmindedly. Ashton thought about swearing, halfway through folding a bandana, and decided against it.

“Just keep on making my life more difficult, Hood, there’s no telling what I’d do without you,” he said instead. Calum raised his eyebrows at the admirable (Ashton thought) show of sarcasm but didn’t reply. Instead he pointed at the clock and raised his eyebrows, like Ashton wasn’t nervous enough already.

“Tell you what, I’m going, you’re a terrible friend and I hope all your stuff is at the curb when I get back because I never want to see you again,” he said, and Calum laughed.

“Enjoy your date, Irwin.”

“Screw you, Hood.” Ashton gave Calum a flippant wave-- _you’re a pain in the ass and you know I love you for i_ t-- and closed the door behind him quietly. Slamming meant you were pissed off, and Ashton had no intention of communicating that more than was sarcastic.

Through the door he heard Calum shout, “ _GOODBYE_!” before he managed to jog out of earshot. It was surprisingly easy to find Michael. Just outside the door of the dorm building Ashton had come to the unpleasant revelation that they’d never specified a spot on the quad to meet, and the quad was an awfully big place; conveniently, Michael had purple hair.

\--Also, Michael found him. Ashton had barely stepped onto the grass when the other boy had bounded up to him, minus a leather jacket and still sporting his sunshine smile. Ashton found the nerves in his gut unravelling, the corners of his mouth turning up, and then his stomach erupted in butterflies as Michael leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Glad you made it,” he said. They were up close and Michael’s eyes were very green again; Ashton glanced away.

“Glad I showed up,” he replied. “Where are we going?”

“Just a little place that owes me a favor,” Michael said. “You’re not lactose intolerant, are you? You would have told me.”

“I would’ve told you,” Ashton said.

Michael nodded, the wariness of a moment before promptly fading and the grin sliding back into place. “Awesome. Come on, it’s a bit of a trek. Do you mind if I give you a ride?”

“What kind of ride?” Ashton said, falling in step with Michael as they took off in the direction of the library.

Michael’s grin slid down halfway and turned into a smirk. “I may or may not drive a machine that’s comprised mostly of thunder, rage, and ozone poison.”

“Oh, god, you drive a motorcycle, don’t you.”

Michael burst out laughing at Ashton’s tone, his amusement rankling Ashton just a little but really only serving to make him crack up in turn. “It’s true, you drive a motorcycle and tear holes in the ozone and make old ladies make faces at you,” he said, and Michael nodded, still in the middle of a laugh.

“All of that,” he managed to reply. “Also, rock music.”

“That part’s not so bad, though,” Ashton said. “It’s just obnoxious.”

“I’m not sure ‘not so bad’ and ‘just obnoxious’ fit in the same sentence,” Michael said, “But thanks anyway.”

It took five minutes to talk Ashton onto Michael’s precious motorcycle, and five minutes to drive off campus into town, and between that and arrival there was an extra seven minutes of hair-raising sharp turns and speeds far too high for a college town.

By the time Michael pulled up under a red-and-white striped awning and shut off the motor, Ashton had had to be told to stop looking for cops on every corner. Michael bounded off and offered Ashton a hand down, grinning from ear to ear. “You put off me yet?” He asked.

Ashton landed on the sidewalk and waited for his ears to stop ringing. “I don’t think so.”

“Good, cause that was the worst part,” Michael said. “Well, maybe for you. I love the motorcycle, but I don’t think you agree on that.”

“I think the motorcycle was overkill,” Ashton said. “But so far that’s your one mistake, so for now we’re good. What happens next?”

As it turned out, what happened next was ice-cream and an assortment of glares across the counter from a girl with blue hair. (The glares were for Michael. She was perfectly cordial to Ashton.) They sat in the picture window of the building with the red-and-white striped awning, Michael keeping half an eye on his motorcycle as he tried to persuade Ashton to let him spoon-feed him ice cream “I’ve got _two_ functioning hands, Michael, I’m fine feeding _myself_ ice-cream--” and rattled off band names and chord progressions around mouthfuls.

Because Ashton was wearing a Jimi Hendrix shirt and Michael was wearing an AC/DC shirt, the conversation had inevitably drifted into music; it didn’t hurt that Michael’s whole face lit up as he talked about melodies and the cleverest lyrical arrangements he’d ever heard. Ashton found himself with his chin propped on one hand as he ate, semi-aware of the fact that he was probably heart-eyeing terribly. Michael didn’t seem to be in much better straits, but at least he was driving the conversation. Ashton was just doing a lot of nodding and occasionally throwing in a point (most of which Michael agreed with). They must have talked for ages, because eventually the light outside began to fade and miss Bubblegum Blue started to give them pointed looks again. Then, when the conversation picked up again and they had begun to debate Blink-182 versus Panic! at the Disco for the third corner of the emo trinity (Ashton, as a long-time friend of Luke, was defending Blink) Michael looked at his imaginary watch.

“Oh, look at the time!” He exclaimed. Ashton, halfway through defending Blink’s seniority, rolled his eyes. “You just noticed?”

“No, but I’m losing,” Michael replied, waving to Bubblegum Blue. She rolled her eyes and made her way over; Ashton laughed. “That’s reassuring. Also, we probably _should_ get going. Classes, real life, all that jazz.”

Michael grinned. “All that. Am I driving you back?”

“I suppose,” Ashton replied, making a face. Michael grinned. “Cool. Not the you-riding-a-machine-you-hate bit, but the spending-more-time-with-you bit.” Ashton blushed. Michael paid the bill without waiting for a contribution from Ashton. Bubblegum Blue-- who Michael called Ashley during his farewell-- shooed them out. Michael talked Ashton onto the back of his motorcycle and they drove back to campus, the cool evening air poking uncomfortable drafts through the holes in Ashton’s shirt. It was pretty alright otherwise.

==

“You know you’re still not over that motorcycle.”

“How can I be? He still rides it every day, and it’s still obnoxious and loud and shit. Stop interrupting, you’re making me swear. I was temporarily over it because I had a good evening, happy?”

“Never.”

“You’re worse than he is. Please stop talking, the story’s almost over.”

==

Michael parked outside of Ashton’s building and helped him off the bike, offering his arm with a crooked grin as they ambled up the walk. Ashton, whose foot was doing the Thing again, accepted it with some relief. Michael acknowledged the limping somewhat vocally and insisted on walking Ashton upstairs, and Ashton didn’t protest; it was (not) surprisingly easier to traverse a sprawling dorm building when someone was supporting him.

They stopped outside of Ashton’s room and Ashton leaned on the door, trying to play it cool. Michael stuck his hands in his pockets and looked sheepish. “So…”

“I had fun,” Ashton said. “Definitely interested in a repeat, though maybe minus the motorcycle.”

Michael lit up. “Really?”

“Really really.”

“You mean it?”

Ashton pushed himself away from the wall and leaned in, standing on his tiptoes to press a quick kiss to Michael’s mouth. When he dropped down to the floor again he added, “Is that clear enough?”

Michael was grinning from ear to ear. “Could you repeat that? I’m not sure I caught it the first time.”

Ashton rolled his eyes. “Managing smooth and dumb in the same sentence. Nice.”

And he leaned up and repeated it, maybe a little more clearly than before.

==

“And Prince Ashton’s foot itched until the end of time.”

“Dad, please stop talking about yourself in third person now.”

“Fine,” Ashton said. “Although I’ve been doing it _this whole time_ , I’ll stop now. How was your sick day?”

Thomas thought about it.“It was actually pretty weird. That was a fun story, though, though you kept slipping the ‘prince’ thing back in. I liked the part with the motorcycle.”

Ashton glared at him. “This is why you’re Michael’s favorite son.”

“I’m your only son. Is it dinnertime yet?” Thomas kicked the blanket off of himself and looked hopefully toward the kitchen, where his other dad was preparing something neither of them could see but both of them could smell. (It smelled amazing.)

“I don’t know,” Ashton said. “Hey, husband, is it dinnertime?”

“Gimme 30 seconds, you hungry bastards,” Michael shouted back.

“Don’t swear in front of your son!”

“You were swearing in front of him all afternoon, don’t give me that.”

Thomas pointed towards Michael. “He’s got a point.”

“I’ll make him come over here and kiss me, see how smug you are then.”

“ _Daaaad_!” Thomas protested.

Ashton laughed. “Face it, kid, your whole life is a kissing story. Best get used to it now.”

“Will I have to kiss boys?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” Ashton said. “Nor girls, even. You don’t have to kiss anyone if you won’t want to. A lot of other people will be kissing, though, so you might want to desensitize yourself.” Thomas nodded. “Okay, cool. Go ahead.”

“Hey, husband, your son’s cool with kissing in front of him.”

Michael whooped. “And food’s on the table, so that’s everything resolved.”

“That’s not true,” Thomas said. “You never mentioned what happened to Calum and Luke.”

“Well, they got married, obviously,” Ashton said. “And Luke teaches you maths, don’t give me that clueless look. Come on, it’s time for dinner.” 


End file.
